L'Inconnue de la Seine
by Le Masque31
Summary: "Through the ghastly blue, though, came the faint gleam of teeth as her lips stretched in a wide, unnatural smile, and the blue now shone with crimson as the skin split along dry cracks, yet still her smile grew wider and wider, and she listened rapturously to a sound only she could hear." Christine chose Raoul, leaving Erik behind. Yet has he truly left? Or is she going mad?


A/N: "L'Inconnue de la Seine" can be translated as "the unknown [woman] of the Seine."

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

13th of May, 1881, Paris, France

Portentous clouds were crawling across a metallic sky as the deep rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. A pleasantly stout woman was coaxing her five-year-old son along the right bank of the Seine.

"Come along, chéri. We need to get home before the rain starts," she cajoled while attempting to prevent her fashionable plumed hat from being blown away by the wind.

"Maman, there's something in the water," the boy, twisting his head towards the river, declared in that simple, matter-of-fact tone peculiar to children.

The young mother tugged on the boy's hand quite firmly, urging him onwards as another peal of thunder boomed closer than before.

"It's probably just a fish," she replied in a clipped voice, trying to mask her impatience.

"No, maman, look!" The boy slipped from her grasp to peer into the murky waters of the Seine.

Her concern about the extravagant headpiece dissipating among the high gales, the woman ran after him as fast as her heavy skirts would allow; she wrapped her arms around him protectively and pulled him from the edge of the river. The hat glided gently through the chill of the afternoon before settling upon the turbulent waves of the Seine. Its delicate coral feathers were instantly torn away by the current and vanished beneath the fury of the water.

"Do not ever give me such a fright again," the mother scolded weakly, "You could have -"

She stopped mid-sentence when she raised her eyes to identify the 'something' her son had been fascinated by. The little color left in her ashen cheeks drained away, leaving in its wake a mask of deathly pallor. A sharp scream suddenly splintered the heavy air, drowning the protests of both the waves and the wind, as she backed away in terror, dragging her child away from the gruesome sight.

A gentleman in evening-wear, presumably heading to the opera, was alarmed by the woman's shriek and went to ascertain that no harm had befallen her.

"Is anything the matter, Madame?" he inquired as he made his way to the terrified woman.

She raised a trembling hand and pointed to the water. The gentleman gave her a perplexed look, but she did not linger to dispel his confusion. Muttering some unintelligible words, she clutched her son's small hand in hers and hurried away from the main boulevard along a deserted alleyway. The man watched as her retreating form blurred and dimmed amongst the gathering twilight and the small, heavy drops of rain that had started falling rapidly from the leaden sky.

He remained motionless, staring blindly into the distance, with nothing but the melancholy patter of rain to dispel the gloom pervading his heart. Slowly, with a weary sigh, he stepped towards the river in one last attempt to forestall the task ahead of him. He squinted through the downpour of rain into the turbid depths of the Seine. Nothing caught his eye. No strange shape loomed out of the water. With one last cursory glance, the gentleman would have left, had not the violent waves abated to flowing ripples. Instead, he remained transfixed, his handsome features as pale as the ghost he had hoped to lay to rest.

* * *

15th of April, 1881, Paris, France

"You are safe now, Christine," whispered Raoul de Chagny to his soon-to-be bride as they emerged from the labyrinth of underground tunnels of the Palais Garnier into the soft light of a dying day. His arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders with an affectionate squeeze. Christine Daaé gave him a feeble smile before letting her head drop beneath the cover of her blond curls in an attempt to conceal the tears staining her face.

Raoul led her further down the small backstreet of Rue Scribe, away from the majestic opera house, away from her career, her passion, her soul - away from Erik. The tears fell faster now, and she turned her head away in shame; she was ashamed to be doing this to Raoul, her sweet, patient, loving Raoul, who would never question her motives in a time such as this.

"It will be better, Little Lotte. Do not worry. You are still experiencing the aftermath of your terrible ordeal," he murmured soothingly, tenderly brushing away several wet strands of hair from her face. Her terrible ordeal… Despite her efforts and tears and toil, Christine had failed – yet from the very outset her innocence had lacked the glue to keep her plan from shattering into sharp shards. She had led two separate lives through a scheme of intrigue and lies. She had tried to keep them separate, had believed that the boundary between light and darkness could never become blurred, yet neither Erik nor Raoul was willing to maintain the fragile balance between reality and illusion. Her two lives had clashed in a culmination of exquisite grief and terror, and now all three protagonists were left alone among the broken fragments of their fantasies. Where did her ordeal begin and where did it end?

Christine bit her lip and nodded curtly in acknowledgement of Raoul's kind words. The young man sighed inwardly, feeling his inexperienced heart ache in tandem with her own. Yet Christine was not revived by the same warm tenderness as Raoul. Guilt consumes one from within with its scorching flames, yet it brings no warmth, no solace. Only cold, charred ruins remain in its wake. Cold, charred ruins and despair…

Christine's head snapped up at the sound of pebbles crunching beneath the wheels of a chaise. Her golden curls fell lank and muted over her sagging shoulders as she watched Raoul politely open the door for her. She stared at his hand for a long time, and then her eyes drifted apathetically to the dark interior of the carriage. The driver cleared his voice a little too audibly, too insistently, and Christine hurried inside. She felt the velvet seat sink slightly beneath the weight of her fiancé and heard the soft click of the door as it was pulled shut.

"To the Chagny Manor, if you please," Raoul instructed in a distant voice that did not quite manage to cleave through Christine's hazy stupor. She felt Raoul reach for her hand, but she did not respond; she just let it rest into the cocoon of his palm as though all life had drained from her.

The chaise lurched forward with a creak as it began its tedious journey towards the venerable Chagny home. Her distant eyes, whose blue had lost its radiance, lingered ruefully on the splendid opera house until the last rays of the Sun vanished behind its solid marble structure, forcing them to pursue their destination through dreary darkness.

* * *

6th of May, 1881, the Chagny residence, France

Another overcast day. Christine noted this with a groan as she sat up in her bed, having been awakened by her maid bringing her breakfast. She studied the silver tray placed on the white bedspread with weary eyes: croissants, sliced bread, an assortment of jams, cheese, orange juice, and a cup of coffee. She contemplated her choices for a full minute with her head tilted to one side. She finally reached out a pale hand and picked up the delicate china cup. Bringing it to her nose, she inhaled the rich aroma of coffee for a few seconds, and then returned it to its place on the tray; she was neither thirsty nor hungry. She had not been either ever since arriving at the manor. Steadying herself against the bedstead, she stood up and padded slowly towards the window. Her maid had pulled back the heavy, burgundy curtains so that light might shine into her lady's usually gloomy apartment. However, her kind consideration had been undermined by a rainy morning.

Christine gathered the skirt of her light nightgown and sat down on the windowsill. The soft patter of the rain against the window was beautiful music to her, a sad, melancholy, haunting tune. Music... The young woman heaved a sigh and placed her hand flat on the cold glass. Her distant gaze searched the grounds of the manor without perceiving anything. She closed her eyes against the tears that had become so common in the past week and rested her forehead against the window. Its chill was a soothing balm to her pounding head.

A sudden yet barely audible creak outside her chamber door made her jump to her feet as though electrified. Christine remained rooted to the spot, staring at the wooden door as though she were regarding it for the first time. Her heart fluttering against her ribcage, she made her way to the door and placed her hand on the knob. It was cold, cold enough that it seemed to sear her chilled hands, but she did not draw away. She simply stood there, breathing heavily and trying to quell the tremors coursing through her limbs. What she expected, or whether she expected anything at all, was lost in the vague tangle of memories and emotions. The lethargy of the past weeks had been banished by a most curious zeal – an electric tingle demanding instant action; she twisted the doorknob a little too frantically and threw open the door. The narrow hallway beyond was utterly deserted.

She exited the room and pulled the door shut behind her. The candles lit yester night had burned out, plunging the corridor into disconcerting obscurity. Christine took a few tentative steps but stopped breathlessly when a dark shadow flitted across the wall to her right. She dared not move. Her eyes covertly scrutinized that very area, which now appeared to be unfathomably empty. Another fast movement to her left made her turn sharply in that direction. No one was there.

"Is anyone there?" she asked of the empty air with unaccountable disappointment; her voice rang eerily, even harshly throughout the corridor

The echoing silence was the only one that answered her query. The ancient manor seemed to heave a sigh from its most concealed depths. Christine hurriedly averted her gaze to the floor and fretfully wrung her hands; she looked like a curious child being scolded for her impudence. She remained completely motionless, neither weeping nor relaxing her tight nerves. Then, without any perceptible reason, her beautiful head snapped up, glorious curls bouncing over her shoulders and her eyes clear and bright once more. She was looking towards the window located at the end of the passageway and listening intently.

A mellifluous murmur floated to her ears, words unintelligible yet they needn't be understood: a voice, pure and bell-like - a beautiful voice - sang to her, beckoning to and enchanting her. Christine moved as in a trance, gliding soundlessly to the window and pushing it open. She stuck her head through the aperture, and rain mercilessly drenched her golden curls. However, she seemed not aware of it: a dreamy, distant smile graced her usually gloomy features, and she leaned out a bit further.

"Madame!" The hand of her maid latched onto her arm and pulled her back. "Madame, you will surely catch a chill dressed so scantily in this cold weather," the young girl flustered, trying to conceal her fright at Christine's possibly suicidal attempt.

Christine turned her vivacious eyes on the girl, her beam never faltering.

"Did you not hear, Mary? That angelic voice was singing outside. He's here! He has come for me!"

"Madame, no one was singing," said Mary slowly, looking ever so worriedly at her mistress.

"Oh," Christine said as her smile slowly faded and she bowed her head, "It must have stopped."

"You are feverish, Madame," observed Mary as she touched Christine's burning forehead, "Let me get you in bed, and I shall call Master."

"No, don't!" ejaculated a suddenly alarmed Christine, "I am fine. It is just a result of weariness and this horrid weather. Please, do not bother Raoul."

In response, Mary averted her eyes and nodded obediently while leading Christine to her chamber.

* * *

That same evening saw Christine wandering the myriad corridors of the mansion, singing softly to herself. Like a sleepwalker did she make her way to Raoul's study; she slipped in without knocking and took no heed of her fiancé as she glided to the large glass door giving access to the balcony.

Too preoccupied with matters related to the management of the manor, the Chagny fortune, and dozens of other pests generated by Philippe's untimely passing, Raoul simply thought he had missed both Christine's knocking and salute. He raised tired eyes to look at her, and noted with warm pleasure that she was singing again. The tune even seemed familiar, yet he could not quite place it. Perhaps she had sung it to him before.

"I am immensely glad you are better, Little Lotte."

Christine abruptly turned to him, startled by the sound of his voice as though she had been unaware of his presence. Raoul sighed yet blamed her untoward reaction on her lack of nourishment and proper rest. He moved towards her and tenderly took her cold hand in his, brushing gentle lips against her skin. Their eyes met, and Raoul was positively astounded to see their bygone brilliance radiate from them anew. He stroked her delicate hand with his thumb and regarded her with earnest joy.

"I have made the plans for our departure, Little Lotte. We are bound for Sweden on the 14th of this month, along with Mama Valerius. I just need to settle all Philippe's accounts, and then we'll be free to leave Paris behind forever."

A sad, subdued look returned to her graceful features upon the proclamation of such a sentence. She withdrew her hands from his and padded softly to his bureau.

"On the 14th?" she inquired in a trembling voice.

"Yes, my dear, on the 14th," Raoul answered with noticeable reluctance. He turned away and gazed out the window at the shimmering stars nestled in the dark silk of the sky. What was he doing wrong? How could he help her? How could he fail her so miserably? How-

"Raoul," echoed the sweet voice of Christine, "what's this?" She was pointing to that morning's newspaper, a publication of L'Epoque.

Raoul's heart sank when he perceived her gesture. How utterly foolish of him to leave that wretched newspaper in plain sight! He approached her and ascertained his worst fear: she was looking at a small announcement, so deceivingly innocent in its tiny dimensions, which comprised three words - Erik is dead.

"Christine..." Raoul whispered, at a loss for words yet feeling unbearably pressed to say something. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her near. She did not resist.

"I'm so sorry," he said awkwardly.

Christine, contrary to his expectations, was very calm and composed. She raised candid eyes, without any trace of suffering, to him.

"I need to bury him," she stated placidly as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Raoul shook his head.

"It is too dangerous. I cannot possibly allow you to endanger your life for that monster."

As soon as the words, tainted by his utter disgust of Erik, left his lips, he regretted it. Christine made no attempt to pull away from his embrace, but lowered her gaze as silent tears began streaming down her cheeks.

Entirely disgusted by the mere thought of it yet seized by utter desperation at his folly, Raoul offered to bury Erik himself. Christine's tears still spilled freely from her red eyes. However, she knew there was no alternative, for nothing but death could get her away from Raoul's vigilant watch.

"When will you go?" she asked so softly that Raoul might have missed it had not the silence been so complete.

"On the day before we leave," he answered, injecting an unwilling yet necessary firmness in his voice, for he knew Christine would probably entreat him to go straight away.

She nodded wordlessly and stepped away from his warmth into the gathering shadows expedited by a dying candle.

"Please place this on his finger," she whispered reverently and reached inside her nightgown to withdraw the thin string bearing Erik's plain gold ring.

Trying as best as he could to conceal the deep wound carved by this discovery into his aching heart, Raoul accepted her offering and gave her his word to do exactly as she had bid. Christine smiled to him, unlikely peace suffusing her being.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said sweetly and disappeared whence she had come. When the soft click of the door echoed through the small study, Raoul suddenly remembered with a pang where he had heard the song Christine had been singing: it was the same song Erik had used to lure her through that damned mirror, under his very nose.

* * *

13th of May, 1881, Paris, France

Midnight rang long and dreary. The soles of her slippers slipped and slid across the wet cobblestones, and her wasted hands clutched at her threadbare shawl, wrapping it tighter around her thin, shivering body. Catcalls joined the low, ghostly din of the church bell's reverberating tolls, lecherous and jeering shouts attempting to slice through the night; but the darkness was consummate, and the mist was thick - thick enough to engulf and extinguish all who dared disturb the silent night.

Christine, however, was lost in reveries of her own - or perhaps in the soft, dark nothingness that every so often drowned her thoughts and fed on her bodily strength. Her sickly, pallid face was ablaze with a fiery fervor that had never before ousted her sweet, mild temperament. She ploughed on through deserted streets, ploughed on towards the distant lapping of water, which echoed from everywhere - or perhaps nowhere - through the still, eerie mist.

The quiet swish of the Seine grew closer, or at least clearer - for distance had come to naught during this strange, silent night. She walked faster and faster, and broke into a run, though the fog was thicker and colder than ever. Her slippers fell away, and her shawl followed suit, swirling soundlessly in an invisible breeze.

She stopped suddenly beneath the dim, yellow light cast by a lamp overhead. A salty smell reminiscent of fish permeated the air here, and the water, which had become as still as the night itself, could just be heard splashing on the stones below. Christine shivered again and again, her hands white and bloodless, her lips taking on a blue hue. Through the ghastly blue, though, came the faint gleam of teeth as her lips stretched in a wide, unnatural smile, and the blue now shone with crimson as the skin split along dry cracks, yet still her smile grew wider and wider, and she listened rapturously to a sound only she could hear.

But perhaps she was not mad. A mournful, bell-like sound - the voice of an angel - trembled on the night air. It grew louder and louder, yet it did not shatter the heavy silence; it coalesced around it, flowed through it, and came to enfold her spirit in its crystalline tones just as surely as the chill mist embraced her body.

Yet Lucifer had once been an angel, too. The Wedding March beckoned her forth into the gaping abyss beneath, but she gazed forward, smile still splitting her face, as though she could see the wondrous being whose voice so enthralled her. Perhaps she could.

Closer and closer to the edge she inched. Her arms, weak and shaking with cold, rose high into the air, trying to embrace that ethereal sound, bring its beauty into her own breast.

She fell suddenly, arms still outstretched. The singing had stopped. The splash of water was more forceful now, as if hoisting a heavy weight against the stone banks of the Seine.

The fog did not lift until morning, and even then it was only to reveal a steel sky and roiling, grey clouds, beneath which a mangled, flesh-colored shape floated in the Seine. The silence was at last broken some time after dawn, when wild rumors conveyed in hushed, hurried tones claimed that the fiancée of the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny had eloped with another man during the night.

"It is all for the best," a woman with a hard, stern face proclaimed at the top of her voice, effectively dispelling the last, straggling tendrils of silence still hanging over the city. "I've always said those opera girls are not quite right in the head."


End file.
